


Wake to Dream

by Influxus



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Gore, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Rough Sex, Vampires, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 19:44:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Influxus/pseuds/Influxus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q is something like a vampire, Bond inconveniently rushes to the rescue and they both avoid dealing with the aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wake to Dream

**Author's Note:**

> The Q-is-a-vampire AU. There's a bit of gore near the beginning.

Q runs, laughing breathlessly. Wet grass smacks beneath his shoes, making his headlong dash to the boathouse dangerously slippery. He falls once, skidding on the dewy grass, his feet flying from under him as he lands hard on his knees and tumbles to his side, arms flailing. He lays there for a moment, laughing so hard that he clutches his stomach, before rolling on to his back and looking up at the giant, luminous full moon. The brightness of the moon is the only source of illumination for hundreds of meters, its sharp light casting everything into pitch black shadows and stark outlines. In the distance the lights from the mansion wink at him, tiny and star-like. Through the shifting shadows and the blackness of night, Q can see a figure closing in on him and he scrambles back to his feet, running again before the man chasing him can grab his arm. His pursuer just barely misses him, his hand snatching at air, and he curses, laughing along with Q.

“You little shit!” he laughs out, just barely out of breath and takes off after Q once more.

“Almost there!” Q shouts back. “Thought you said you were fit, can’t even catch me!” he taunts.

“Oh yes I can!” the man yells, and when Q risks a glance back, sure enough he’s gaining on him. But he’s almost to the boathouse, if he can just reach it before –

“Gotcha!” he says gleefully, his hand closing on Q’s wrist just as his feet hit the wooden walkway to the boathouse door. He tugs at Q’s arm and spins him around, hugging him to his chest, laughing in soft pants against his ear.

“There, I’ve got you. You know, you run awfully fast for a city boy.”

“Track,” Q explains, throwing his arms around his captor’s neck and pulling him down for a long, sweaty kiss. 

“Come on,” he says, pulling away and grabbing his hand, twining their fingers together. “I want to show you the boathouse. God, I haven’t been here since… I can’t even remember when. It’s been years.”

“Oy, where’s my prize for catching you?” the man laughs, but lets himself be lead down the walkway and towards the crumbling stone house. 

“Christ this is high up, this can’t be your boathouse, not unless your boats are floating on air.”

“No, you’re right, this is actually the wayhouse between the boathouse and the steps down. It’s a bit of a hike down the cliff to the boathouse proper and even more of a walk back to the house, so someone long ago built this place as a rest point between the two places.”

“Looks a bit… unsteady,” his companion says, looking critically and somewhat doubtfully at the house. It does, a little; it’s run over with weeds and creepers and a bit of the stonework at the side is falling away.

“It’s not,” Q assures him, sticking his hand into his pocket and feeling about for the key. He finds it at the bottom of his pants pocket and procures it with a flourish. 

“Oh good, I didn’t lose it. Come on; let’s go in. It’s perfectly sound, I assure you.”

Q unlocks the heavy wooden door, wrenching it open and tugs him inside. It’s pitch black inside, the only illumination from a tiny slotted window at the top of the cliff-side wall. It lets through a thin rectangle of moonlight that does little to alleviate the gloom.

“Bloody dark in here,” the man complains.”

“Hang on, there’s a lantern here somewhere.”

Q casts about for the lantern, finding it just inside the door. He clicks it on, the batteries thankfully still good and the sudden brightness is blinding. Q blinks stars out of his eyes and setting the lantern down, takes a look around.

“Wow, you weren’t kidding,” Q’s companion comments, letting go of Q’s hand to look around. “It’s like a concrete cell in here! Why’s it so bare?”

Q shrugs. “They empty out the place when no one’s here. Makes it easier to clean I suppose.”

“Why’s there that big drain off to the side?” the man asks, pointing. In the far corner to the right, there’s a large metal drain, the stone around it gently sloped.

“In summertime there’s a table there, for filleting whatever they catch, fish or deer or whatnot. The drain runs right out into the ocean, so there’s no worry about clean up.”

“Ah,” he says, turning back to Q and giving him a dirty smile. “Well now that we’re here, what shall we do?”

“Oh I can think of a few things,” Q says with a smile of his own and pushes the door shut before walking over and running his palms over the man’s chest. “Take this off,” he murmurs, tugging at the soft cotton and he gets a lust-filled look in return. His companion pulls his shirt off, revealing toned hard muscles. Q hums in approval and slides his hands up the man’s torso, pausing to pinch at his nipples before wrapping his hands over the back of his partner’s neck. 

Q leans up and kisses him, lightly and teasingly, small butterfly kisses with a playful lick in between. He walks them backwards until they hit the wall.

“I think I’m going to fuck you right against this wall,” Q purrs, into his ear, before nipping the lobe between his teeth and sucking. His partner groans and rubs their hips together, his clothed erection pressing into Q’s crotch, where he’s similarly aroused. He leans down for a long, dirty kiss, his tongue sliding into Q’s mouth, licking at his teeth and pulling back to suck at Q’s tongue. Q kisses back with equal fervor, sucking his lower lip and tugging with his teeth. They kiss until Q pulls back, panting softly.

“Come on, I want to fuck you now.”

“Yeah,” the man breathes, sliding past Q to brace his hands against the wall. He thrusts his ass back and Q grabs his hips and grinds his clothed cock against his ass for a moment, groaning in pleasure and anticipation. 

“Mmm, yes, but not like this,” Q says and pushes him until the man’s bare chest is pushed flush against the wall. He gasps at the chill of the stone and Q laughs. “It’ll warm up, relax.”

Q’s partner squirms against him, canting his hips back to rub his ass against Q’s prick, the material of his trousers dragging over Q’s zip. 

“I feel like I should know your name before we do this,” he laughs. Q licks the juncture of his neck rubbing his nose against the soft skin and trailing his right hand over the man’s forearm, pinning it against the wall.

“Names aren’t really important for this,” Q says softly and gripping the arm he’d been stroking, pulls his prey’s arm back with a powerful wrench. It twists out of joint with a pop Q feels rather than hears, the man’s sudden scream of pain masking the sound. The arm dangles uselessly at his side and he struggles, lashing out with his left arm and bucking away from the wall.

Q grabs his flailing wrist, halting the man’s thrashing, and squeezes it until he hears the crunch of bones breaking. He squeezes harder, mashing the wrist between his fingers, grinding the fragments of shattered bone against the muscles of the man’s wrist. He can feel the bones shifting, the veins bursting under the pressure of his fist. The screaming has reached a high, desperate pitch, a sound that never fails to turn Q on. He grinds his erection against the man’s ass and sinks his teeth into his neck and _pulls_. He feels the flesh tear between his teeth, the sinews and muscles ripping one by one, coming apart beneath his teeth and tearing away from his prey’s body with a thick gout of luscious red blood. Q pulls until the skin between his teeth comes off with a sucking rip. He sucks at the flesh for a moment and chews, feeling the skin and torn muscles slide between his teeth, before discarding it, spitting it off to the side. 

The screams are harsher now, sobbing and crazed and so very, very frightened. Q licks his lips and watches the blood pool out and around the wound, swelling up and flowing down in jagged streams. He leans in and catches a trickle on his tongue, following the trail up to the damaged flesh and delicately licks in, before wrapping his mouth around the ragged wound and drinking deeply. 

The wrist trapped by his hand is nothing but crushed tendons and pulverized muscle, but Q’s forgotten about it. He’s immersed in the blood and tendons beneath his tongue, the smooth muscles and the rich pumping blood. His teeth itch and he leans in sinks his teeth into the slick muscle again and tears and tears. The flesh rips away with a sweet, satisfying resistance. He’s gone deeper this time. Through the thick pumping of dark, lovely blood, he can see a hint of bone peeking out from the deepest part of the mess he’s made of the man’s neck. He spits his mouthful of flesh out, and leans back in, pressing his mouth into the wound to lick at the bit of exposed spinal bone and greedily drinks his fill.

The screaming has faded and stopped by now. Q had torn the man’s windpipe with the second bite and he’s fast bleeding out. Q laps gently at the bone, twice more, before pulling back to suck the remaining blood from the slowing pump of his prey’s veins. Before the blood flow stops, Q draws back, flinging the man to the side, where the body skids over the drain. People soil themselves in death and Q hates the smell. Although frankly sometimes they soil themselves before Q’s even done. He’s faintly surprised that this one didn’t. A bit tougher than expected, Q thinks as the man’s heart slows and finally stops, expiring quietly in the corner.

Q reaches down to adjust himself in his trousers; his arousal is less urgent now but he still wants a fuck. He could probably find someone at a club back in London, Q thinks, but first he needs to clean up. He wipes his hand over his mouth, carelessly smearing blood across his face. He looks down at the smears of blood on his right hand and thoughtlessly sticks his fingers into his mouth, sucking the blood off. He’s just turning around to go, fingers still in his mouth when Bond bursts in through the door, gun in hand, looking coldly furious. That expression slides off his face like water, morphing into confusion and shock. Q slowly slides his fingers out of his mouth with a pop that sounds obscenely loud in the thick stillness of the concrete room.

Q licks at his lips, unsure what to say.

“Ah, Bond,” he says simply, discreetly wiping his hands against the seams of his relatively clean trousers and feeling rather foolishly like a child caught sneaking sweets. Bond instantly straightens, all traces of surprise wiped from his body. He is once again the cool, calm and dangerous MI6 agent. His gun never wavers from its aim at Q and he steps further into the room, treading carefully and slowly. 

“What happened here?”

Q considers Bond. He can practically hear Bond’s mind whirring, coming up with scenario after scenario lightning-fast and discarding them just as quickly. He is rapidly coming to a conclusion that will likely benefit no one, regardless of its accuracy, and for all that Bond can be an insufferable ass, Q rather likes him. And he hasn’t liked anyone in a long time. With that startling realization, Q comes to a decision right then and there and opts for the truth.

“I killed him,” Q says.

“Why?” Bond asks, sounding somewhere between disbelief and barely contained fury. He reeks of furious betrayal though, and Q hadn’t realized how much trust Bond lays in him. For the barest moment, he treasures it, rolling it through his mind like a delicate glass bauble. Now more than ever, he likes Bond, really likes him, even as Bond stinks of broken trust. Q will rectify that, he has to, because he doesn’t want to lose Bond and that realization makes him more determined than ever to be fully honest.

“Because I was hungry,” Q says. “You really shouldn’t have seen this. It’d have been much better if you hadn’t.”

Bond swallows, his gun still trained on Q’s head, but he’s looking straight into Q’s eyes with that ice blue gaze that Q finds so amusing and irritating in equal measure. 

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you right here, right now.”

“Because you like me,” Q says, the words slipping out before he can catch them. 

Bond immediately opens fire. Q is disappointed, but not surprised and kicks himself mentally, even as he dodges the bullets meant for his extremities. Distantly Q realizes that Bond’s shooting to injure, not to kill, but he’s too busy trying to avoid being shot to pay it any further mind. There’s nowhere to hide in the room, no crates to duck behind or furniture to tip over and use as a blockade. Q has to duck and weave to avoid Bond’s fire as he empties his clip at him, the shots deafening in the enclosed space, the noise ringing off the stone walls. 

When Bond’s forced to reload Q quickly darts over to snap off the lantern and slam the door closed, twisting the lock and crushing the handle. They’re immediately plunged into inky blackness, the only illumination the thin stream of moonlight coming from the slotted, high window, which barely pierces the darkness. Q hears the click of Bond reloading and feels him slow his breathing to near silence. Bond remains unmoving and silent and Q realizes that Bond’s waiting for him to make a sound and reveal his location. This will be an exercise in patience, Q thinks, but Bond is worth it. Probably. Q’s not known for his patient nature, but he doesn’t want to hurt Bond and he also needs to talk to him.

“Don’t,” Q says. 

The room flares up for the briefest moment, illuminating Bond and the fierce expression on his face. Q dodges the shot Bond aimed at his voice, his ears throbbing with the crack of the shot. He sighs. Disappointing, but again, entirely expected. He doesn’t want to restrain Bond, who will react badly to that, so he’s stuck dashing around the room until Bond runs out of ammo. Bugger that, Q thinks and darts in, avoiding the sliver of moonlight on the floor and rips the gun from Bond’s grasp. Bond draws in a sharp breath and Q can smell pain. He’s probably wrenched Bond’s wrist and Q curses his impulsive action.

“I apologize, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Q says from across the room where he’s retreated to, concerned that Bond might rush him once he speaks. But Bond doesn’t, instead he slowly and quietly edges backwards. He’s look for the wall, Q thinks, watching as Bond reach his arms back, the soft scuffle of Bond’s feet across the floor barely audible.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Q says. “I promise. Hear me out.”

Q waits for a reply, but when none is forthcoming, Q forges on.

“I did kill that man, but only because I had to, I swear.”

Still nothing. Q watches as Bond silently edges sideways, Bond’s hand brushing against the opposite wall, following the wall with the tips of his fingers.

“Look, I’m trying to be honest with you, can you just give me a bloody moment to explain! I’m not a threat to you, or Britain, or anyone at the moment!” Q says, his temper fraying a bit. There’s a pause where Bond doesn’t move for a moment, doesn’t even breathe, before he calmly says,

“So explain.”

Finally, Q thinks.

“You’ve heard of, well. Damn, this sounds ridiculous, but I’m – I eat– I drink blood. I have to. Not have to in the sense that it’s a psychological impulse that demands to be fulfilled, but in the sense that I need fresh blood for physical sustenance. To survive. Without it I will literally die. I know that sounds like something a psychopath would say, but in my case it’s entirely true. Oh fucking hell, this sounds completely absurd, there’s absolutely no good way to make this sound rational.”

There’s an incredulous snort from the corner of the room.

“So, you’re what, a bloody vampire?”

“Oh shut up,” Q snaps. “Fucking modern romantics, making it sound cheap and foolish, like a silly child’s fantasy. It makes saying this sound even more unlikely, but I am a… The equivalent of a vampire, I suppose. God, that sounds stupid.” 

Q runs a hand through his sticky hair, grimacing as his fingers tangle in a blood soaked curl.

“I don’t suppose there’s anything I could say to make you believe me?” he tries.

There’s a long silence from Bond’s corner and then, 

“You dodged my fire. How?”

“I’m fast. Faster than any human.”

“What else?”

“I’m strong and some of my senses are heightened.”

“Can you see me?” 

“Yes,” Q says. “But only barely. Though I can hear you and smell you quite well.”

“You can hear and smell me?”

“Yes, I can. I can hear your heart beating; it’s fast, you’re frightened or at least very nervous. And you’re sweating a bit, I can smell the salt.”

“What makes you think I’m scared?”

Q sighs.

“Well firstly because you’ve just seen the aftermath of me killing that unfortunate man over there and you’re also dwelling on how quickly I moved, not only to avoid being shot, but the speed in which I disarmed you. You’re coming to the very correct realization that I’m not altogether human, and that frightens you, which is a very reasonable reaction, there’s no need to get defensive about it. But for the most part I know you’re scared because fear has a very distinct scent, and it’s all over you.”

“…You can smell fear?”

“Yes, and several other emotions. You’re also angry, I don’t blame you. This is an… unexpected situation, to say the least.”

There’s another long pause. Q fiddles with Bond’s gun, turning it over in his hands, feeling the light grain of the handle and the cooling heat of the barrel. He absently flicks the safety back on, the metallic click loud in the heavy silence. Several long minutes pass before Bond asks,

“Does anyone know? MI6?”

“No,” Q says truthfully. “It’s better if no one knows. I’ve found that telling people is… more trouble than it’s worth, usually.”

“So why tell me now? Why not make up some story about stumbling across a murder?”

Q scoffs. “All the way out here? Only a complete idiot or the willfully blind would buy that and you’re neither. You’d never believe me so I didn’t really see much point in lying. And I don’t want to lie to you. We are both killers, Bond.”

“I don’t kill innocent people.”

“Is that what you call your collateral damage? Tell me Bond, how many ‘innocent’ people have you killed in your lifetime?”

“I don’t do _that_ ,” Bond says with disgust.

“And yet the end result is the same. People are dead, people who haven’t done anything to you, who didn’t stand a chance against you, countless, faceless people who lived their lives, worked their jobs and loved their families until you or I showed up and ended their lives. Intent isn’t worth a damn; it’s the consequences of our actions that matter. Every day I save lives, just like you, but each of us has our own collateral damage, and both for the same reason. Because it’s unavoidable. To live, I need to eat; to do your job, you need to kill. And we do not dwell on it because we do the things we do in service to a greater cause. What is one life in comparison to thousands? Millions? Ends and means Bond, ends and means. Is the bad we do more important than the good? Or does the good outweigh the bad? Some people would have you think that one life is worth one million, but we both know that isn’t true and it’s not the world we live in, it’s not our reality. We are the ones who make the hard decisions, who decide the worth of a life. And we both made our choices long ago.”

“We’re not the same,” Bond snarls.

“No, we’re not. You can choose to stop killing; it would mean the end of your career at MI6 and the end of your life as you know it, but you would live on, if you could manage not to drink yourself into an early grave. But I don’t have that luxury of choice, the option to stop. If I stopped killing, I would die, because every living thing needs to eat and regardless of what pop fiction tells you, I am very much alive.”

“If you are what you claim, why kill? Why not, live off blood bags or kill animals?”

Q sighs.

“God dammit, popular culture has a lot to answer for. Look, there’s a longer answer, but suffice to say, it doesn’t work like that. If you really want to know more, fine, but stop trying to shoot me.”

Bond doesn’t reply for a long time, but Q listens as his heartbeat slows down to something resembling calm and the scent of fear gradually dissipates. From off to the side Q can hear a quiet drip of blood falling against the cool concrete. The faint rumble of the surf vibrates through his body, reminding him of his aborted arousal. His erection is completely gone by now, but he’s still thrumming from the high of a kill, something deep within him aching for a fuck. As soon as this business with Bond is sorted, he’s going to find the nearest willing person to sink his cock into and he’s going to fuck them until they pass out. 

After a while Bond breaks the silence and says, “I’m sick of this room. Open the door and let’s leave.”

At last, Q thinks and feels his way over to the door, ripping the lock out and opening the door. He tenses, unsure if Bond is going to attack him, but Bond just blinks in the wan glow of the moonlight and walks towards him. Q sheepishly hands him his gun, a show of trust he hopes isn’t about to backfire on him spectacularly and painfully. But Bond just takes the gun, re-holstering it, and walks to his car that’s haphazardly parked on the lawn, a trail of uprooted and torn grass in its wake. It’s a wonder Q didn’t hear Bond tearing across the green, but the post-killing high always floods him with endorphins and distracts him from everything but the need to fuck. Still, Q is a bit surprised and dismayed at himself. He’s been doing this for so many years and he still gets so engrossed in the moment, the blissful rush of blood, that he forgets himself and gets careless. More than getting caught, his negligence shames him. 

He watches as Bond goes over to his car, the headlights on and the car door still open. Bond must have come with some hurry and that reminds Q of a question he’s been meaning to ask, but hadn’t found the appropriate moment for.

“How did you find me?”

Bond gives him a cool look.

“You’re wearing the standard issue monitoring watch with tracking device. You triggered your distress signal, we couldn’t reach you by phone and your location was atypical. MI6 doesn’t take the safety of their Quartermaster lightly.”

Q scowls down at his wristwatch that’s crusted over with congealing blood, where sure enough, the hands of the watch have frozen. He’d somehow managed to activate the alarm switch, he’s not even sure when, though it’d most likely been when they’d been dashing through the house, crashing through rooms and wrestling on the furniture. It could even have been when he’d been running and tripped on the grass, letting that man catch up to Q, enticing him to continue the chase. They’re both a few of the rough little games Q likes to play before a kill, it gets Q’s blood up and it lulls his target into thinking him easily overpowered, or at least not a threat, and he finds the irony of the prey chasing the predator amusing. 

But however he’d managed to hit the hidden switch, he had definitely triggered the distress signal. How careless, Q thinks, now thoroughly exasperated with himself. All this over an accident of his own making. He idly scrapes at the itchy, flaking blood on his wrist and glares at Bond in irritation.

“Yes, but how did you manage to get here so quickly? We’re at least ninety minutes away from London, and that’s taking into account your flagrant disregard for traffic and speeding laws.”

“I was in the area,” Bond says vaguely. Q narrows his eyes suspiciously, but Bond has an excellent poker face and Q can’t get a decent read on him. It’s all a bit to coincidental for Q’s liking, but he lets it drop for the moment.

“And they sent just you?”

“I’m usually enough,” Bond says, his lips quirking into a half smile. “I doubt you’d have wanted an entire team coming down to rescue you.”

“True enough,” Q sighs. “All right, I’m going back in; I have a body to dispose of and evidence to wash away. Do try not to shoot me when my back’s turned.”

Bond raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Planning to toss it into the channel?”

“Yes, Bond, how very perceptive of you, seeing as how we’re right next to the ocean. I take back everything even remotely complimentary I may have said about you before.”

“You’re not making a very good case for yourself here. I could still shoot you.”

“And I could throw you into the channel along with that body,” Q says irritably. Bond’s lips quirk up into a small smile.

“Do you need any help?”

Q is slightly taken aback for a moment, before swiftly regaining his equilibrium and frowning at Bond.

“Well, I suppose… Come on. I will be very cross with you if you do shoot me,” Q warns and turns his back to Bond and tromps back into the wayhouse. But Bond just follows him in, blinking when Q flips on the lantern. Q winces internally. The mess of the body looks even worse in the light, even if most of the remaining blood made it down the drain. Behind him, Bond lets out a breath and says,

“Fucking hell. Did you really need to tear him up so much? You practically decapitated him.”

Q walks over to the body and grabs the arms, indicating that Bond should take the legs. Together the lift the body and walk it out of the room, back into the night.

“Strictly speaking, I didn’t need to ‘tear him up’ but I got a bit carried away. It’s been a while for me and I got… overenthusiastic. Here is fine.”

They stop at the edge of the cliff a little past the wayhouse. The surf crashes up against the sheer rock far below, roaring dully. With a swing, they toss the body over the side, watching it’s decent into the water below. It lands with a faint splash and vanishes, only to bob up, before smashing against the rocks and disappearing again.

“You’re not worried he’ll wash up somewhere?” Bond asks.

“Not particularly,” Q says. “The current will catch him, and wherever he ends up, if he even gets washed ashore, it’ll be somewhere reasonably far away. By that time the water, the waves and the fish will have rendered him unrecognizable and impossible to trace back to here.”

“You’ve done your homework.”

“I’ve had to,” Q replies. He wipes his hands against his trousers and turns away from the cliff. “Thank you for your assistance 007. Have a safe drive home.”

Bond turns from his contemplation of the sea to give Q a thoughtful look.

“I suppose I can drive you to your car. Where is it?”

“I’m parked by the house, but I do still have to clean up the mess in the wayhouse.”

“Right. I think I’ll stay, keep an eye on you.”

“I’m not going to kill anyone else tonight,” Q says in exasperation. Bond stays silent, but there’s a distinctly amused air about him. Q huffs and glares at him.

“Well, if you’re going to stay you might as well be useful.”

“I already helped you dispose of a body, I’m not sure I ought to continue aiding and abetting you.”

“Because you have so many compunctions about that sort of thing.” Q rolls his eyes. “In for a penny, in for a pound, 007. There’s bleach and other cleaning materials at the house, do you plan to give me a ride or not?”

“What else is at the house?” Bond asks. “More evidence to dispose of? What about that boy’s car? Going to toss that off the cliff as well?”

Q rolls his eyes at Bond, long suffering.

“I am not a fool, we took my car and it was parked well away from where I picked him up. I have done this a fair amount of times, Bond, and I am exceedingly good at it. I know how to avoid suspicion.”

Bond tenses slightly at the mention of other times, but his body language quickly returns to normal and he grudgingly says,

“I suppose you do. Come on, get in. No, wait, I’m not letting you in like that.”

Q looks down at himself and tugs his blood soaked shirt way from his chest. It comes away somewhat reluctantly, with a muffled sucking noise. He grimaces in distaste, the cool blood tacky against his skin.

“I suppose I am a bit… sticky. I can walk back, it’s not a problem.”

“No, hang on.” Bond holds up a hand and pops opens the boot of his car, pulling out a length of plastic sheeting. He opens the side door and spreads the sheet over the seat, making sure to cover every inch of the dark brown leather. 

“There, now you can sit.”

“Thank you,” Q says, rolling his eyes. “Wouldn’t want to get blood all over your lovely car.”

“Perish the thought,” Bond agrees.

They drive back to Q’s car in silence. Q can tell that Bond is bursting with questions, but is restraining himself for some reason. Right now Q doesn’t care, he’s got this mess to clean up, a long drive back to London and he wants a shower and a fuck in that order. He’s not about to even entertain the thought of dealing with Bond until both of those things happen. Bond pulls up to Q’s battered green Toyota and Q gets out with some difficulty, the blood on his clothes sticking to the plastic sheeting. Q gathers up the sheet in exasperation and throws it on the ground with a glare, daring Bond to say anything. Because Bond is insufferable, he opens his mouth to say something undoubtedly rude, but Q quickly cuts him off.

“Bleach is under the kitchen sink, I trust you can find it? Good, I need to change,” Q says, pointing at the kitchen door until Bond, with an amused smile on his face, turns and heads inside, the door banging behind him. Q opens the boot of his car and pulls out a rough cloth bag he’d stuffed a spare change of clothes into before leaving London. Upending the clean ones into the boot, he peels off his blood-encrusted clothes, shucking them into the bag. His shirt is heavy and stiff with congealed blood, and it crackles as he pulls it off. Some blood has soaked into his trousers, but on the whole they came away relatively unscathed. His blasted wristwatch is unmarred beneath a thick coating of gore and he tosses it into the bag with disgust. His socks and shoes go the same way, along with his pants, until he’s completely naked. 

He takes a quick inventory of himself, he’s not too bad, most of the mess ended up in his face and hands, although quite a lot of blood is crusted in his hair, drying up his arms and flaking off his chest. He grabs the bottle of water and a towel he’d left in the boot, soaks the towel liberally, and starts scrubbing the blood off his face and arms. He hears Bond come back through the kitchen door and pause. Q looks up and sees Bond pursing his lips, evidently trying not to laugh. 

“You couldn’t just use the shower?” he asks, a few chuckles escaping. Q glowers at him and goes back to washing.

“This is a _summer_ house Bond, and it’s the middle of spring right now. All the utilities remain turned off in the interim. And since I’m not about to jump into the channel, this is the next best thing.”

Q upends the remaining water over his head and scrubs the towel in his hair, until it feels slightly less itchy. He feels about his face, he’s as clean as he’s going to get until he’s back at his flat, but just to make sure he asks Bond, “Do I look clean enough?”

“There’s still blood in your hair. But I suppose as long as you’re far enough away, you look relatively normal. Probably best not to get pulled over though.”

“Right,” Q nods and quickly pulls on his clean clothes. Bond watches him dress until Q’s tugging on his shoes and shoving the towel, water bottle and the plastic sheet he’d left on the ground into the cloth bag. Bond shakes the bottle of bleach, sloshing the liquid inside. 

“Do you think you have enough?” he asks. Q grabs the bag, shutting the boot, and looks over.

“Yes, I won’t need much. Most of the blood will have gone out to the ocean by now; I was careful to kill him by the drain.”

Bond says nothing to that and they put the cleaning materials and the bag full of blood-covered paraphernalia into Bond’s car and drive back to the wayhouse. Without the body, the mess doesn’t look quite so bad, and taking a rag and a bottle of cleaner each, they set to scrubbing up. It takes them a bit, there’s quite a lot of blood on the wall, and a few spurts of arterial spray are splattered across the floor. They work in silence until Q pulls back and deems them finished. He splashes bleach over the cleaned areas to remove the remaining blood evidence and stuffs the cleaning cloths into the bag, tying it closed.

“What are you going to do with that?” Bond asks.

“I’m going to burn it,” Q replies. 

Back at the house Q stops at his car to grab some matches and a spare can of petrol and with items in hand, heads inside, the bag slung over his shoulder. Bond follows him down into the manor’s basement, watching as he pulls open the ancient incinerator grate. Q tosses the bag in and douses it with petrol until the cloth is soaked through and the can is over half empty. He takes the book of matches, lights the whole thing up and tosses it in, quickly shutting the grate as the fuel-wet cloth bursts into flame with a blast of hot air. 

Q covers his nose against the stench of burning plastic and watches, Bond silent next to him, until the fire burns itself out, all the evidence of his latest kill reduced to smoke and ashes. He takes a poker and scrapes the remaining cinders aside until he finds the twisted remains of his watch. He stares balefully at it and considers leaving it, stupid bloody watch, ruining his night, but Bond taps his arm with a pair of metal tongs and Q takes them crossly, fishing the remains out. They’re still smoking, so Q drops the watch on the ground and grinds it beneath his heel until it’s cool enough to pick up. It’s still hot to the touch, but he ignores the burn and shuts the incinerator grate, returning the poker and tongs to their place and heads upstairs. 

He and Bond go through the house quickly and efficiently, righting furniture, smoothing coverings and blowing out all the candles, returning the manor to its original dark, quiet and disused state. When the house is once more hushed and empty, they leave its dusty confines and walk back out into the cool night, Q carefully locking the door behind them with a soft click. Outside the cold glow of the moon throws everything back into inky shadows and it almost feels like the moment he’d tumbled onto the grass and looked up at the sky, except he’s not laughing now and it’s Bond beside him, not some nameless man he intends to kill. 

It’s an odd feeling in a night full of odd feelings and Q stops that train of thought before it can go any farther. Home, shower, sex, those are the only things he’s prepared to give a shit about at the moment, and with that in mind, he heads over to his car, pulling open the door. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Bond,” Q says, getting into his car and shoving his melted watch into the glove compartment. He pauses, key in the ignition, before he rolls down his window and says, “Thank you. I mean, for understanding.”

Bond smiles, the expression somehow gentle in a way he very rarely is.

“Goodnight, Q.”

Q hesitantly smiles back, before starting his car up and driving away. It’s been a strange and unexpectedly eventful night, but now that he’s alone again, the lust he’s been mostly ignoring roars up with a vengeance. Q squirms in his seat and tries to tamp it back down, but it’s difficult without something around to distract him. Q glances at dashboard clock and realizes with a start that it’s been over two hours since Bond crashed through the wayhouse door. Q curses, it’s far later than he’d thought, he’d spent longer out there than intended, thanks to Bond, and he still has to get back to London. 

He briefly considers spending the night in Brighton, because he’s not sure he has time to get back to his flat in London, shower and pick someone up before he needs to be getting ready for work. But he hasn’t been around Brighton for ages and he’d have to get a hotel and fucking hell he just wants to go back to his own flat, it’s been enough of a night already. He shifts again, pressing the heel of his hand down on his erection and resigns himself to the very real possibility of his hand being the only relief he’s set to get tonight.

*

The light of Bond’s car follow him back to London, which Q had anticipated, after all Q is taking the fastest route back, but once in London he expects Bond to turn off towards his own flat. But he doesn’t and his headlights tail Q as he drives home. Bond’s not even trying to hide it, boldly trailing him only 20 meters behind. Q briefly considers trying to lose him, but Bond is a much better driver than he is and losing Bond on the streets is more of a fantasy than a reality. Q fumes silently all the way back to his place.

Sure enough, as soon as he pulls into his parking space, Bond is there right next to him, looking as unruffled as ever.

“Whatever you want, it’ll hold until I’ve had a shower,” Q snaps, slamming his car door and glaring at Bond, who just inclines his head in acquiescence and silently follows Q up to his flat. Q unlocks his front door, flicks on the lights, and trudges inside, toeing off his shoes as he goes. He doesn’t even bother to watch Bond follow him inside, just heads over to the bathroom and starts up the shower, carelessly tossing his clothes on the floor. The water’s not warm yet, but his entire body itches and bits of dried blood are still glued to his scalp, so he ignores the temperature and steps naked into the tepid spray of the shower.

He shivers a little in the chill, but it feels glorious to wash the remnants of blood away and he runs his fingers through his hair, untangling blood-stiff curls and turning his face into the spray. By the time the water’s finally hot, the water’s no longer running rusty reddish-brown down the drain and Q’s feeling marginally cleaner. He thoroughly soaps himself and shampoos his hair, the soap bubbles turning a pinkish color as he washes away the cloying scent of his kill. He runs a hand over his half hard cock and considers having a wank right there, but Bond’s right outside and he’d rather jerk off at his own leisure. When at last he’s clean he shuts off the shower with a regretful sigh, slings a towel around himself, grabbing another one to rub over his hair, and opens the bathroom door in a billow of hot steamy air. 

Bond glances up from where he’s poking around Q’s movie collection. Q considers him for a moment, and then heads into his room. Bond can wait. But apparently Bond can’t wait, because he walks into Q’s room right after him and leans against the wall, watching him.

“Do you mind?” Q says, resisting the urge to cross his arms defensively across his bare chest. It’s not like Bond hasn’t already seen him naked tonight and it’s ridiculous that Bond can make him feel at all vulnerable, but Q’s just barely coming to terms with the fact that he genuinely likes Bond and he’s not prepared to examine any other emotions further just now.

“Not at all,” Bond says, unmoving, but following Q with his eyes.

Q literally throws in the towel right then and there, tossing the towel across his shoulders squarely at Bond, who catches it before it can hit his face. He looks at the towel in his hand and raises an eyebrow at Q.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Q says, falling backwards onto his bed. The mattress bounces slightly under his weight and Q glares up at his ceiling. Fuck it.

“I’m giving you fair warning Bond, in two minutes I’m going to start wanking whether you’re in the room or not.”

“Why?”

“Why?! Because, because if I don’t get my prick into something _very soon_ I’m going to go mad. At the very least I’m going to get extremely unpleasant to be around. And I _will_ take it out on you.”

“No you won’t,” Bond says confidently from his position against the wall. Q can _hear_ his smirk, the bastard. 

“All right, I won’t, at least not physically. But I am prepared to verbally rip you into tiny little pieces, so do not test me.”

Bond shifts, but doesn’t move, damn him.

“Do you always have the urge to fuck after a kill?”

“Yes,” Q sighs. “I suspect it’s a reaction to the influx of fresh blood into my system. My heart pumps a little faster, my body’s more sensitized and I get hard, every time. It’s not psychological, at least it wasn’t at first as far as I can tell, and it’s not some inborn need or urge. It’s just a physical reaction. But I _do_ need to release the rush of energy from my body and I’ve found sex is the best way.”

“And if you don’t?” Bond asks.

“I don’t know,” Q admits. “I’ve never been curious enough to find out. And your two minutes are up.”

With that, he flips the towel off his hips and wraps a hand around his hard cock. It’s too dry but he doesn’t care, the roughness of his palm tugging at the skin of his shaft as he jerks off at a quick pace. He’d rather, much rather have a warm cunt or asshole or mouth around his cock, but this will have to do. He whines, arching into his hand. It’s not enough, he’s spoiled himself the last several years with a steady stream of available people to fuck and he’s not used to just his hand after a post-kill high. He feels the bed dip and he cracks open his eyes to glare at Bond, who has decided to seat himself next Q.

“You look like you could use some help.”

Q scowls at him, opening his mouth to deliver a scathing reply, but something about Bond’s expression stills his tongue. He slows his hand a little, studying Bond’s face. He’s serious, and Q realizes with a start that he's _offering_. He hisses as a sharp spike of arousal rushes through him, curling deep in his stomach and making his cock jerk in his hand. An accompanying rush of complicated feelings follow the arousal, but Q quashes them firmly, shoving them to the side. He can deal that later. Right now, right now…

“You better mean it,” he warns.

“I always mean it,” Bond says, comfortably arrogant. “What do you need?”

“Preferably to fuck you. If I can’t have that, your mouth will do.”

“Hmm,” Bond says, considering, and rolls over onto Q’s body, lowering himself to the floor and pulling Q after him. When Q’s feet hit the floor Bond sinks to his knees, pushes Q’s hand out of the way, and swallows him down. Q yelps, barely resisting the urge to thrust up into Bond’s mouth. Bond sucks him a bit messily, his tongue curling around the shaft, before pulling up the swirl his tongue over the head. He’s not as experienced as Q’s used to, but he’s not inexperienced either, Q thinks, when Bond sucks him halfway down and hums. 

Q snarls, gripping Bond’s head and running his fingers through the soft, cropped hair. Bond shoots him a warning look and Q doesn’t push it, even though he wants to force him down and fuck his mouth, make Bond deep throat Q until he comes down his throat so deeply that Bond won’t even taste him. Q shudders at the thought. He _could_ force Bond, but he’s never forced anyone yet and he doesn’t ever plan to. Still, it makes him want more and Q leans forward to look down at Bond. Bond sucks up his length before releasing him with a wet pop. Q moans softly, cupping the curve of Bond’s skull and running a thumb across Bond’s slick lips.

“Would you, would you be okay with more? Will you let me fuck you?”

Bond’s tongue darts out to lick Q’s thumb, sucking it into his mouth as he thinks about it. After a moment he lets Q’s thumb slide from his mouth.

“I haven’t done this in a while,” he warns Q. “Where’re your condoms?”

“Here, here,” Q says scrambling up the bed and jerking open his bedside drawer, grabbing the condoms and lube and turning back to Bond. Bond is just pulling off his pants, the rest of his clothes lying crumpled on the floor. He stands naked before Q, and if Q was in any other mood, he’d take a moment to admire the man in front of him, the definition of his muscles and the thick length of his cock lying flaccid against his thighs. But right now all he wants to do is to bury himself as deep as he can in Bond’s ass and fuck him until he screams.

“How do you want me?” Bond asks evenly, but Q can hear the rapid pounding of his heart. Bond is nervous. That manages to calm Q’s raging libido down to rational levels and he flicks open the bottle of lube and spreads it over his fingers, rubbing them a little to warm the lube up.

“Hands and knees, ass up. I’ll prep you until you say you’re ready, understand?”

“Do you plan to talk about it, or do it?” Bond shoots back, getting into position and looking back over his shoulder, and the last bit of hesitation Q has flies right out the window.

He spreads Bond’s ass with his dry hand and runs a lubed finger over the tight pucker of his hole. Bond hisses, so Q does it a few more times just to feel him squirm, before he presses in one long finger. Bond sucks in a quick breath, but he doesn’t tense up and he doesn’t sound like he’s in pain. Q thrusts his finger into Bond a few more times before adding another. Bond tenses at the second finger and Q pauses, holding still until he relaxes around him. He starts to thrust his fingers in again, twisting them a little until Bond jerks up and gasps. 

Q smirks, Bond’s getting hard and he smells of arousal. Q crooks his fingers again, teasing Bond’s prostate until Bond’s fully hard beneath him and canting his hips back. Q pours more lube over his fingers and pushes a third one in. Bond bites his lips and smells slightly of pain, but he relaxes much faster and after a few careful thrusts, he’s taking Q’s fingers easily, spreading his legs farther apart to let them go deeper.

He could maybe use a little more prep, but Q’s so hard he’s aching and Bond can take it. He tears open the condom and rolls it onto his cock, spreading more lube over his shaft before resting it against Bond’s opening. He rubs the head of his cock over Bond’s hole until Bond shudders and pushes back, glaring at him over his shoulder.

“I can take it,” he says roughly, echoing Q’s earlier thought.

“I know,” Q replies and pushes his cock into Bond’s ass with one long thrust. He goes faster than he intended, and by the time he’s all the way in Bond is wire-taut beneath him and clenching in pain. Q stays still, willing Bond to relax and trembling with the effort not to move. After a long moment Bond breathes deeply and the vice grip around Q’s cock loosens a little. Bond’s not relaxed, not by any means and he’s only half hard now, but he nods at Q and like he said, he can take it.

Q draws back until only the head of his cock remains in Bond, before slamming forward, burying himself to the hilt. Bond gasps sharply, fisting the sheets between his fingers and Q starts a hard, fast pace. Bond rocks beneath him, his knuckles white against the sheets, grunting with each thrust and gritting his teeth. He’s hurting Bond, but he can’t bring himself to care because fuck, Bond is so hot inside and he’s gripping Q’s cock so tightly he just wants to push in as far as he can and stay there. He angles his thrusts, trying to get deeper and suddenly Bond cries out and jolts up beneath him and the heady scent of arousal floods Q’s senses. Q grabs Bond’s hips and presses his chest down, tilting his hips until every thrust is making Bond twitch and jerk and shiver and he’s muffling choked shouts into the bed sheets.

Q speeds up, Bond gasping and moaning with every thrust as he arches his back and hungrily pushes back onto Q’s cock. His cries have a desperate keening quality to them now, his cock jerking and dripping pre come onto the sheets. Bond shoves a hand down to pull at his cock and bites his other hand, trying to mask the loudness of his voice. But Q’s as addicted to the sounds he’s pulling from Bond’s mouth, as much as he is the tight grip of Bond’s ass stretched wide around his cock and he mindlessly grabs Bond’s wrist, yanking it away from his mouth and pinning it to the bed. Bond shivers wonderfully at the rough treatment and turns his head to the side, crying out brokenly.

Q growls and with his free hand spreads Bond’s thighs further, opening him wider and fucking in deeper. Bond lets out a high, startled whine at the new angle and tightens hard around Q, stiffening beneath him and coming suddenly. Q pushes in deep and groans as Bond shakes under him, his hole contracting almost unbearably. Bond furiously milks his cock, come splashing onto the sheets as he shouts his pleasure into the mattress. Bond gradually loosens around him as he comes down from his orgasm, twitching from the aftershocks running through his body and panting into the sheets. He tilts his hips back against Q, and looks over his shoulder, smug satisfaction emanating from every pore.

“Well?” he asks, pushing back and clenching down on Q’s cock. 

Q shivers and thrusts in hard. Bond moans appreciatively and Q fucks into him mercilessly, chasing his own pleasure. Bond is pliant and relaxed from orgasm, taking Q’s cock smoothly and easily. It’s fantastic, the way Bond just lets him use him as roughly as he wants and how he arches into it, humming with pleasure. Q feels his balls draw up, tight against his body as he gets close. And then Bond twists under him and lets out an absolutely obscene moan and that’s it, he’s done. Q trembles over Bond as he comes hard, his cock pulsing inside Bond, who grunts softly. Q slowly comes down, his hips twitching, pushing his still hard cock into Bond’s wet hole and making him shiver. Q stays in him until the last aftershocks of orgasm pass and he’s getting overly sensitive. He carefully pulls out and tosses the condom in the bin, grabbing the towel that’s been pushed to the side. He gently cleans Bond up, who smiles at him and closes his eyes, stretching luxuriously. When Q’s finished he throws the towel off the side of the bed and lies back down, nudging Bond until he crawls up to join Q against the pillows.

“Better?” Bond asks, looking inordinately pleased with himself. Q’s feeling too content to hit him, so he shoves lazily at Bond’s shoulder.

“Yes, now shut up and go to sleep.”

“You want me to stay?”

Q lifts his suddenly heavy eyelids and gives Bond a look of scorn. Or, as much scorn as he can manage post orgasm, which is not very much.

“I’m not the sort of asshole who kicks someone out of bed once I’ve finished with them. Christ Bond, who the hell do you think I am?”

Bond doesn’t reply and Q drifts contentedly as Bond covers them with the sheet and settles at Q’s side. Q grunts and wiggles until he’s draped over Bond, his head over Bond’s heart. Bond is warm, the warmth Q craves at all times and just before sleep claims him he thinks he hears Bond say, “I’m not sure who you are.” But it could be just the sound of his heartbeat, strong and steady underneath Q’s cheek.

*

Barely thirty minutes later, Q’s alarm goes off, blaring loudly and obnoxiously and shattering the quiet peace. Q twitches awake at the same time Bond does, who tenses under Q, before relaxing as he gets his bearings. Q flails an arm out from the warm comfort of his bed and firmly smacks the snooze button. He’s fully awake, no trace of drowsiness, another side effect of his particular condition, but he finds he’s loathe to move. Bond is soothingly warm, warmer than most, and Q distantly wonders if Bond’s always run hot or if it just seems that way due to Q’s relative coolness. He thinks about other bed partners and decides that it’s the former. 

Bond’s skin is surprisingly soft beneath his fingers and in the thin, watery light of pre dawn, Q allows himself to look. Bond’s as scarred as he expected, perhaps more so than a regular field agent, but not enough to be off putting. His hard muscles are lax in drowsiness and only slightly less prominent than earlier. His nipples are a small and tight and Q absently circles one with the tip of his finger. Bond doesn’t move, his breathing regular and calm and Q slowly runs his finger down Bond’s abs, tracing a long, faint scar that trails down his hip. Before he can reach the end of it, Bond grabs his wrist, gripping it firmly. Q looks up at Bond thoughtfully. There’s a story there, but he’s not going to chase it now, maybe not ever. Bond slowly releases his wrist, fingers lightly brushing the back of Q’s hand. He meets Q’s eyes, giving him that familiar half smirk of his when the alarm goes off again. Q rolls his eyes and sits up, leaning over to turn off the alarm.

“Up, up. We’ve an hour before I’m due at SIS and we should both shower. We smell like sex,” Q says, wrinkling his nose and rolling out of bed. Bond’s suit is still on the floor and Q picks it up and shakes it out. It’s still wrinkled, but unless Bond wants to run back to his own flat, it will have to do.

“Well, we did have sex,” Bond says easily, folding his arms under his head and eyeing Q as he goes to his closet. 

“Yes I know, I was there,” Q says, looking back at Bond, who’s watching him as he roots through his clothes. Q realizes with a start that the look Bond’s sending his way is decidedly appreciative. That’s somewhat unexpected, but better than the alternative, so Q mentally shrugs and tosses his clothes on the bed.

“Priorities, Bond,” he admonishes, bending over to pick up the towels he discarded last night. Bond smiles at him wryly.

“So it’s back to business?” 

“As much as possible,” Q says and heads to the bathroom. 

Q’s mildly surprised when Bond doesn’t join him, as Bond seems the type, but he’s not particularly put out and it means that his shower goes quickly. When he gets out, clean and happily no longer reeking of sex, Bond pokes his head out from the kitchen. He’s back in his suit, which is only a little worse for the wear, although some exclusive tailor in London is probably wailing in dismay, no doubt.

“You only have bread and jam in your cupboards. I can’t find any coffee,” Bond tells him.

“I don’t have any coffee,” Q says, heading back to his room and pulling on clothes over his slightly damp body. When he’s fully dressed he goes over to his dresser and picks up his false glasses, putting them on and looking critically in the mirror. He runs a comb through his hair to get out the worst tangles, adjusts his glasses and walks to the kitchen where Bond is still banging through his cupboards.

“You don’t have anything,” Bond says accusingly. “Why don’t you have anything?”

“I don’t have anything because I can’t eat anything. The only things I can stomach are water and weak tea.”

“Why?”

Q shrugs. “My body rejects it. Literally. I can’t hold solid food down, or anything thicker than tea, unless it’s blood. I learned that lesson the hard way and it’s not something I’m ever looking to repeat.”

“If you can’t eat anything, why do you have bread and jam?” Bond asks. Q rolls his eyes.

“In case you haven’t pieced it together, I sleep with a lot of people. If they want, they’re always welcome to spend the night here afterwards, and I’ve found that they typically expect some sort of breakfast in the morning when they do.”

“That’s accommodating of you.”

“I find it’s best to be prepared,” Q says, turning on the kettle and settling down on a kitchen chair to wait for the water to boil. “Feel free to have whatever’s around, if you like. Do you want tea as well?”

Bond pulls a face and joins Q at the kitchen table.

“Not if I can help it.”

“How very unpatriotic of you.”

“I figure killing and spying for the crown is patriotic enough.”

“Fair point,” Q concedes. He’s feeling uncharacteristically nervous. It’s been years since he’s slept with someone who knows what he is and he keeps expecting questions that Bond doesn’t ask. It’s making him twitchy, but Q’s not about to offer information unprompted. He still remembers the last time he did that, foolishly and naively revealing everything about himself in the excitement of finally being able to _tell_ someone. It had ended badly several months later, another lesson hard learned. He’s never given as much of himself since, and he’s not about to start up again with Bond.

Suddenly he remembers something and he jerks his head up.

“Oh shit, please tell me that you remembered to notify MI6 of my well-being.”

“Did it on the drive back,” Bond smirks. Q lets out a relieved breath. In the ensuing silence, Q lets himself take a long assessing look at Bond. He looks fine, his clothes a little rumpled, and a bit of stubble shadowing his jaw, but otherwise he looks as he normally does. Q’s eyes fall onto Bond’s wrist. He’d been rather indelicate last night, and to be perfectly honest, he’d completely forgotten about the injury in his overwhelming lust. He feels slightly guilty about that and asks,

“How’s your wrist? I know I wasn’t exactly gentle with you last night…”

“It’s fine,” Bond says, rotating it. “A bit sore, but it’s barely a sprain. Nothing to worry about.”

Before Q can protest that he isn’t _worried_ , the kettle beeps out its little tune. Bond turns to stare incredulously at Q.

“Is that... God Save The Queen?”

“Yes,” Q says brightly, pouring himself a cup and dunking a tea bag in. “I modified it. The regular tune was so dull and this is so much more… British, don’t you think?”

Bond raises an eyebrow at him.

“Are you even British?”

“No,” Q admits. “But I am very fond of the British Isles.”

“So where are you from?”

Q looks at Bond consideringly, debating on whether or not it’s prudent to tell him. Telling him probably wouldn’t do any harm; Q has methodically and thoroughly buried and deleted all evidence of his existence beyond what is necessary for MI6 to employ him. But it would be another part of himself that Bond would know, could use against him if he so chooses, something to fling back in his face when he needs the ammunition. And yet, Bond let Q use him when he needed to, even after witnessing the aftermath of what he can do, after knowing what Q is, and he did it freely, without flinching.

 _He is a trustworthy soul_ , a voice whispers in his ear, a voice that Q quickly banishes before it can finish, pushing the wayward memory back into the dark recesses of his mind where it belongs. But it’s true, Bond may lie and steal and cheat, all things Q has personally watched him do, but behind the slick veneer of polished indifference Bond’s loyalties are carved deep into his bones. He’s accepted quite a bit on good faith, and with a snap of decisiveness, Q decides that Bond deserves an honest answer to this one question.

“I’m from Spain. And that’s as much as I’m going to say on that subject, so don’t ask.”

“No me atrevería,” Bond says with a cocky smirk. Q resists the urge to throw his tea bag at Bond’s head and settles for shooting him an unimpressed scowl over the rim of his mug. The tea’s still a bit too hot; Q prefers it more in the range of 37 to 39°C, closer to the temperature of human blood, but he drinks it anyway because it’s getting late, and he’s keen to get back to Q Branch. He’s currently working on sticky nanotech trackers that can be released in a diffuse spray. If they work, they’ll stick to the skin, be undetectable by metal scanners and very difficult to see, thus making them less likely to be found and discarded. So far it’s been slow going, but it’s something worth pursuing and in Q’s experience, anything worth pursuing is something worth perfecting.

Q quickly finishes his tea, ignoring the burns to his tongue, which heal almost instantly anyway, and puts the mug in the sink. He fetches his satchel and laptop, shrugs on a parka, because even though it’s spring, it’s still spring in England and it’s important to keep up appearances. He waves his hand at the door.

“Out, out, I need to lock up behind you.”

“No fancy security codes? Nothing to key in on some pad?” Bond asks, getting up.

“No, that would be entirely too conspicuous. My system is much more subtle than that.”

Bond looks at him questioningly, pausing at the door, but Q motions him out and refuses to tell him anything. Bond watches him closely as he locks the door, but Q has made his security system as discreet as possible and he’s sure that even Bond hasn’t figured it out yet. At least, fairly sure. One can never be quite certain with Bond. Once at his car, Q waves Bond off.

“Go back to your flat and change, wouldn’t want anyone thinking you can’t take care of a bespoke suit.”

“Of course not,” Bond says cheekily and lopes off to his car. As he watches Bond disappear around the corner, Q feels the last bits of the previous night’s disaster slowly drain away. He’s sure he’ll still be feeling the ramifications from last night for quite a while, now that Bond knows and there’s the added bit of confusion over having sex with him, to say nothing of the fact of Q actually realizing he likes Bond quite a lot. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t entirely processed it all yet, but he pushes it aside to think about later. Right now he gets in his car and heads to the SIS building.

When he’s comfortably settled back in Q Branch, mug of tea in hand and typing away with the other, he lets himself check the feeds for Bond. Bond’s walking out of his flat now, shaved and wearing a fresh suit. He looks far more rested than any human on less than thirty minutes of sleep has a right to, Q thinks in disgust. But Bond’s well enough from the looks of it and Q turns back to his coding and proceeds to completely forget about Bond as he absorbs himself in his work. 

It’s sometime in the evening when Q realizes that one; he hasn’t taken a break in six hours and two; he hasn’t seen Bond all day. He pulls up the feeds but Bond’s not in any of them. Curious. Q pokes his head out of Q Branch and catches Tanner walking by.

“Hello Bill, have you seen 007 today?”

“Ah, Q,” Tanner says, smiling amiably. “007’s out on a mission. Left this afternoon. What’d you need him for?”

“Oh nothing that can’t wait I suppose,” Q says. “Though I’m a bit surprised he didn’t come down to ask for a jet pack or cigars that shoot missiles.”

Tanner laughs in agreement. “I’m sure he would have, if he’d had the time. Like a kids in a candy shop, those 00s.”

“More like a bulls in a china shop you mean,” Q grumbles. “Ah well, I’ll count myself lucky this time.”

Tanner nods, wishes Q a good evening and continues down the hall. Q heads back into Q Branch feeling oddly numb. Back to business indeed, he thinks, and goes off to make himself a cup of tea.

**Author's Note:**

> This will eventually be Q/Silva and Bond/Q/Silva. I will change the pairing tags to include that once I get to those chapters.


End file.
